


Last night in the trench

by markantony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Grantaire pov, Les Mis Across History, M/M, Minor Courfeyrac/Combeferre, Spanish Civil War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markantony/pseuds/markantony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's intention wasn't to be a soldier; to fight for the Republic against fascism. Some things can't be avoided when you befriend a group of republican friends and love the leader of the crew, which was carrying a new world in their hearts, and that world was growing that exact minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last night in the trench

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I am very passionate about the Spanish Civil War and the late history of my country because it all seems very recent. I had been craving to write this fic since I first joined the fandom and I finally did. I idid my research, the dates are all correct and the places are real. I took poetic license too but... Anyway, I don't love it much, it doesn't seem perfect to me, but I can't do anything else. I hope you guys like it.  
> ◈ The song they sing + others they probably sang in the trench are in this mix: http://8tracks.com/patroclea/war-of-brothers.  
> ◈ Translations for the spanish/catalan expressions are in the footnotes. I announce that english is not my mother language, forgive my mistakes.

“What troubles you?” queried Enjolras, snuggling against Grantaire, who was smoking while staring out of the window. He couldn't see the stars, just old grey buildings and he listened to the voice of people talking. Then he noticed the soft hand of Enjolras caressing his back and nuzzling against it and a tear came out from his left eye.  
"Do you think the nationalist will arrive soon, Enjolras?”  
"Of course not. In the headquarters they say everything's going alright; that everyone is in good humour and they won't let Cataluña fall”  
"They wouldn't admit otherwise”  
"I'm thinking of the doctors. It must be tough for Joly to lead all the medicine students from the zone” uttered Enjolras. “I hope he doesn't try to do everything himself”  
"I miss Joly and Lesgle” he hinted. He hadn't seen them for days."

Silence fell again in the little flat located in Santa Ana street where they had been living together for six month. At first, during the spring of 1938, he had crashed in Enjolras' flat because he was the only one who had space for him – Courfeyrac lived with Marius and Feuilly, Combeferre and the others lived in the headquarters of the CNT. Grantaire didn't move there in the first place because his intention was not to fight; he was just in Barcelona because he didn't want to be in Cádiz anymore. Enjolras wasn't a soldier either, but he was important for the trade union: he had been a member since he was fifteen and apart from helping a lot of workers, he called them to join the revolution while going to the factories and to the countryside. At first he wasn't taken seriously, but that didn't last long. It ended with a speech...

“Why don't we, then, build and even in better conditions to replace what has been destroyed? The ruins don't frighten us. We know that we won't inherit nothing but ruins, because the bourgueoise will try to ruin the world in the last phase of its history. I repeat: but we aren't frightened of the ruins, because we have a new world in our heart. That world is growing this very minute!” The men roared and lifted their fits and gave their hearts to Enjolras.  
It too happened with Grantaire. “This is not a hotel” stated Enjolras when the other moved in the first day. “You have to help us in exchange of living in my flat”. “No” had answered Grantaire: he wasn't an idealist like his new friends; he wasn't even part of any trade union. But the fierce look in his eyes when he stared at him and the sweet smile he had when he distributed goods among those who came to him convinced him after a week.  
Next, some nights he slept on the barricades. He too went to the factories and spoke to the workers when Enjolras couldn't. He had travelled to the border and sat with Lesgle, Bahorel and Joly on the ground, singing songs, learning catalan and talking about his home, faces full of dirt and their empty stomachs.  
On the other hand, the trench wasn't the most cheerful place. Yes, the hunger could be avoided by singing, but not always. And they couldn't look apart from the mountains because a small group of infantry groups could make advance forward and take territory in any moments. He had been present in some executions that took place in his city, but this was the first time he cried. He witnessed the death of his friend Jehan. The details were blurry but for some reason he had jumped over the trench and walked forward. A nationalist patrol appeared out of nowhere – “If we cleaned the zone everyday, none of this would have happened” argued Jean Valjean, Marius' girlfriend's father, a man who volunteered in the trench to carry the bounded and take them back to the city – and dragged him to a place where the enemies bullets couldn't reach. The fascists told them to surrender and spoke of the power and superiority of the nationalist party. Before the general could speak, Jehan was shot, they didn't hear him shrieking, and they started firing. Most of them died; Grantaire counted three deads by his own bullets. Not enough, he muttered when he was congratulated. He and Joly run to take the body.  
He stayed in the trench for three and half month. _You have aged there_ , had said Enjolras when he embraced him after he came back.  
All the soldiers returned soon after him. That summer Franco's troops had severely tired Republican armies stationed in Catalonia, who saw their operating capacity reduced by the loss of implements of war and the death of veterans and they decided the only option they had left was to defend Barcelona. Barricades were being built in all the streets and Enjolras became louder and everyone in the city knew him and engaged in that cause, thinking that the Lord had sent an angel in their last hours to help them.

How he made him fall in love with him was a mystery for him, so he agreed he had to be an angel and only God knew the reason they shared a bed, kissed and went out to dance (or rather to teach Enjolras to dance) in sordid bars for men like them. Enjolras, in spite of his 'official duties', which swallowed up almost the whole of his time, considered it his duty to keep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual and artistic world and that way he could always entertain his friends talking about light topics. He was an infinitely beautiful man, with blond hair, blue eyes and a self-possesed expression in his face, making everybody calm or excited at his will. He could play Gabriel in a Christmas play, mentioned Grantaire once with a grin in his face.

The rosy sky woke up Grantaire early and he left Enjolras dozing for a while.  
_"Vaig a veure com van Courfeyrac i Combeferre. Veus? Practico la teva llengua_ ¹ he wrote in a note, leaving it on the book Enjolras was reading; Seven against Thebes. Instead of wearing normal clothes, he had become used to wear the uniform and he didn't change his habit that morning. He carried his guitar and left the small flat. He walked for fifteen minutes to arrive to the barricade in Carrer de Trafalgar. In the meantime he watched the people. Hardly anything was open yet and there were few people outside except soldiers, volunteers and people who didn't have a house. He caught a glimpse of children who were running to school. There were few schools that dared to do their work.

He arrived and he received a good morning hug from Courfeyrac. He wouldn't let his spirit down; he was the one that kep the men in the barricade and his passion spreaded like fire. He was shot in the leg in 1937 and since then he had to use a crutch to go anywhere, which didn't stop him. He had been active for two years and had an important role. Before the war, he was studying to be a teacher and now he was practising on his 'students', teaching them to stay alive and see the new sun rising. He was only twenty five but he adopted everyone, even the veterans. He was a was a squarely built, dark man, not very tall, with a good-humored, handsome face and curly auburn hair.  
He embraced Grantaire and kissed him on the cheek. “Look, I've got a letter from my sister Elena in France! She is going to get married apparently” he gushed, smiling widely”.  
"Congratulations. You'll be uncle soon I bet”.  
"Oh, I just wish! I want to see all of my sisters soon, it's been so long... But come! Have you had breakfast? Combeferre has improvised and we have milk, bread and _fuet_ ². Combeferre! Grantaire is here” yelled Courfeyrac.  
“I see” began Combeferre, nodding with an air of contempt. He was sitting on the concrete, around a wooden box with food on it. “Welcome to our feast, Aristophanes³ . Sit between Eryximachus⁴ and Pausanias⁵ . Our Alcibiades⁶ has already eaten”.  
“I have already eaten indeed but I wouldn't mind to do it again. Anyway, if I am Alcibiades, does that make you Socrates? I think you are more handsome, Combeferre” Coufeyrac gaily replied.  
“I surmise that he is Agathon⁷” noted Eryximachus, most commonly known by Feuilly. The other was Joly, who was serving more milk.

Grantaire sat down and laid his guitar near him. “What is a symposium without wine? I have a bottle of sherry at Enjolras', brought from Jerez. I am engaged to it”  
“Ah, I crave for Andalusia!” exclaimed Joly. “It's your fault, cousin, for bringing the guitar and reminding me of our home talking of sherry” he sighed. Joly, apart of being Grantaire's cousin, was a character loved by everyone. He was not merely liked by all who knew him for his good humor, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable honesty. In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes, dark hair and eyebrows, there was something which produced a physical effect of kindliness and good humor on the people who met him.  
“I have never been there but I bet the food is better” acknowledged Feuilly.  
“Beggars can't be choosers” joked Bahorel, who approached the group. He was wearing a big scard – knitted by his girlfriend – around his neck. He was a man of exceptional physical strength, which he showed for the most part by being able to drink like a fish, lift anything, and do without sleep without being in the slightest degree affected by it; and for his great strength of character, which he showed in his relations with his comrades, friends and superior officers, commanding fear, respect and sympathy, and also at cards, when he would play for tens of thousands and however much he might have drunk, always with such skill and decision that he was reckoned the best player in the city.  
“This guy is the cause that we are starving. If he didn't eat so much...” complained Courfeyrac.  
“When you are 190 centimeters tall, you'll understand my need of food”  
“Basques!” jested Joly.  
“Leave the highlander alone. Where's Marius?” asked Grantaire. Marius was one of the youngest of the group of friends, a student of law and a bundle of nerves. One never knew where he was or what he was doing. _Kinda like Prouvaire_ , thought Combeferre.  
“He is gone to visit his girlfriend” answered Bahorel. Marius' girlfriend, a creature with a rosy little face and flaxen hair lived with his father. “He and Valjean will have to spend the afternoon together. Terrific... What day is it, by the way?”  
Combeferre had a glance at his watch. “12 January”.“I suppose none is going home. Nobody left for Christmas anyway” lamented Feuilly. He was orphan and he never had a house or a family to spend Christmas with, so he always spent the holidays with any of his friends. The fact that the ones who had family couldn't see them saddened him.  
“I won't. I received a letter from my brother Nicolás. He tells me to come back but I'll stay. I have my brother at home and he can take care of my mother, but I'd encourage the men to go home if they are the ones that bear the weight of their homes”.  
They all nodded. Grantaire took out his guitar and started playing and singing:

 _No soy un de pueblo de bueyes,_ _  
__que soy de un pueblo que embargan_ _  
__yacimientos de leones,_ _  
__desfiladeros de águilas_ _  
__y cordilleras de toros_ _  
__con el orgullo en el asta._ _  
__Nunca medraron los bueyes._ ⁸

 

Little by little, everyone joined and sang and the sun rose completely. At nine, they decided they had to quit the fun and took a post on the trench. Grantaire put his rifle on his shoulder and stood next to Lesgle chattering. He was a light-hearted lawyer always hopelessly in debt and his now best friend.

The reason there were barricades all around Barcelona was the following: Everyone was aware that there was going to be a big battle soon and that the city was hiding enemies already.  
At noon, Enjolras appeared and greeted his friends. He told that he had been at the headquarters, interrogating a fascist spy they captured the day before and eventually, saw his execution because he wasn't of no use. Grantaire left his post to listen but he lowered his eyes when he listened to this. Indeed, he was an angel ready for war, cold and able to kill someone because he wasn't on his side. Everyone knew Grantaire's opinion on the topic. He didn't believe that they'd win the war and he questioned why they had to kill anyone.  
“They killed Prouvaire!” Enjolras alleged.  
“Those men and boys we are shooting aren't the ones who kill Prouvaire. Franco is the enemy in any case. They are fascist not because they believe in it, but because they parents told them they better become winners” he answered, frowning.  
“Are you with us because your father told you so, Grantaire?”  
The latter smiled mirthlessly. “That isn't the reason definetely”.  
“Then?”  
But he never explained and Enjolras went along with it and stopped being angry. He knew the reason: he knew that Grantaire didn't grow up in a bourgeois house and he was a well-read man. A man like that could only believe in the freedom of the people.

At night, Enjolras and Grantaire returned to their flat. They made love for hours, each one worshipping the body of the other with kisses and words whispered to their skin, gasping for air and clutching to each other. Grantaire was cold when they finished. He had to talk:  
“Enjolras”.  
“Mmm”  
“Let's go to Andalusia” he blurted.  
“What?”  
“ _You_ are going to die if you stay here”  
“Why the hell are you saying that? Grantaire, be serious” he urged in catalan.  
Grantaire felt faltering when he saw his angry look but still kept going. “There is no point of dying here if you know the war is going to be won by them. You could go to anywhere else and live a longer life. Jean Prouvaire died thinking that we were probably going to win, I admit that. But you? You are more intelligent than that and I don't want to go to your burial”.  
“Then don't come. I don't want you there” he got dressed and left. Grantaire looked towards the door, and his face wore a strange new expression.

He didn't see Enjolras for days but he didn't look for him. He didn't come back to his flat either so he slept in the barricade with the others.  
The franquist attack from the south couldn't be stopped by the few Republicans battalions assigned to Tarragona and the troops entered Tarragona on January 14th, thereby pressing the south of Barcelona. The city suffered frequent aerial bombardment. Combeferre and Lesgle died the morning of the 15th. They found a letter to his girlfriend and Joly on Lesgle's bed in the headquarters and a letter to his mother on Combeferre's.  
Bahorel and Feuilly were sent to the trench that was between Sitges and Manresa, just 20 kilometers from Barcelona. They didn't come back.

Starting from January 23rd thousands of Republican supporters fleed Barcelona, taking with them their families and belongings, and taking by assault food stores, needing it to survive during the march to France. Some communist militants tried to defend the city at all costs by staying on the barricades, including the remaining of Enjolras' squad: Courfeyrac, Joly and few others.  
“Seven hells, where is Grantaire?” cursed Courfeyrac. Enjolras shrugged but he knew.

Grantaire had come back to Enjolras' house the night before to see if he was there... And he was. “I'm leaving and I advise you to do it too” he affirmed. His face had none of the eagerness which, during his stay with Enjolras, had fairly flashed from his eyes and his smile everytime they were alone. That same morning, the nationalist army finished conquering Barcelona. A tank appeared on the corner of Carrer de Trafalgar and instantly demolished the barricade made of pavement. Joly fell under the rubble and lost his breath. Enjolras and Courfeyrac run fast from the disaster, but bullets reached Courfeyrac and he kissed the ground. Enjolras didn't stop his running but he closed his eyes to not let any tear escape. He stopped when he thought he was safe and took his gun out.  
“Take a breath, son” a voice said. He gasped and watched a pair of soldiers covered in dust and blood pointing his guns to him from the other side of the street. Enjolras was taken prisioner for being the head of one of the barricades and therefore, a chief.

Grantaire had fled. He found himself in the outskirts of Barcelona, running toward the mountain and possibly to France, he hadn't planned it. _I'm not attached to life but I'm not craving death either. I have no reason to feel ashamed before anyone else or before myself_ , he kept telling to himself.  
The next day he was woken up by a kick on the ribs. He had fallen asleep next to a road where he thought none would come by but a truck full of republican prisioners did. He was pushed inside it, but not before hitting Grantaire's temples with the rifle's butt.  
Inside the truck, a lot of tired eyes greeted him. One of them reached for his hand and shook it. “I'm Ramón, what's your name?” He hesitated to shake it back when he noticed the guy could be fifteen. “Grantaire. Where are we going?”  
“Barcelona. We are from Tàrrega but you... you aren't catalan, right?”  
“I'm from Cádiz”  
He giggled. “I knew. Your accent is funny”  
“Thanks buddy.”  
The journey was short. Grantaire was put in a cell with other five men, among which was Ramón. Now his end was in front of his eyes, he couldn't run from it and he didn't care a bit.

The cell had four beds and a urinal. There was a small window that overlooked the courtyard and on the wall a crucifix. He took the bed under it just because it reminded of his bed back in home. “Habits” he explained.  
The days passed by watching soldiers walk between the corridors, hearing the captain yelling and seeing small groups dragging their feet on the corridor, walking to their death. He listened to Ramón and another young boy talking about his life and venting to him. They expressed that they were afraid of dying and that they only joined the republican army because they thought it was the right thing to do. The other boy – he was called Juan – was eighteen and his girlfriend and babbled about her and how he shouldn't have left her alone.  
“She is the smallest thing and the most delicious girl I've ever seen” he told. He explained how she was an orphan and moved in with him and his parents the year before. “Haven't you got a girlfriend or a wife?” asked Ramón to Grantaire, eager to learn more about him.  
“I was born a bohemian and a bohemian I'll die” he replied and Ramón shared an infectious smile.

Grantaire didn't take a peek at what happened every evening in the courtyard from his window and he didn't wish to do it. He always took a nap after lunch – if one could call lunch to what they gave to him – and he woke up after everything had finished. He knew that the others observed the massacre but he didn't want to take part. On the other hand, some days he couldn't force himself to sleep but played asleep anyway.  
During these times, he thought of his friends. He had witnessed the death of the biggest part of them and dreaded what could have happened to the few them. Courfeyrac and Joly were the warmest persons he had shared part of his heart too... And the space they occupied felt empty. He felt they weren't alive and grieved in silence.  
Enjolras was alive somehow. Grantaire longed to know where he was and to punch him in the face, make him fall unconscious and save him from himself. He smiled at the thought of Enjolras fighting him back.  
“What are you smiling at?” asked Ramón, who had been sitting besides him the whole time.  
“Nothing” he shrugged.  
“There was a blondie in the courtyard next to the shooters who watched the whole thing”.  
“Must be the wife of someone, I don't know”.  
“I think... he was a guy, I'm not sure... But he had his hands tied in the back. Maybe they force him to watch the executions so he spits information...”  
Grantaire stopped listening to what the teen said – and Ramón, noticing that, withdrew – and pondered those words. He run his hand through his black curls. “I think... he was a guy, I'm not sure...”. It was not the first time he had listened to those words describing someone. Could it be that Enjolras was here too, maybe in an isolated cell? Then he was to be killed sooner or later, depending on his decision to help the fascists or not. Would those _conceited blockheads_ named soldiers reveal if he was indeed Enjolras and where he was?

Hope didn't stay for longer than ten minutes in Grantaire and he could not help bowing his head mournfully. He got up and walked towards the cell door and stuck his tanned face between the bars, wishing to see Enjolras walk by with a cold, rather ill-tempered expression on his face, as he used to have everytime he had to deal with fascists. Instead, he saw a private, who was sent to check if there was trouble inside the cells. Ramón run next to Grantaire and called the soldier:  
“Private! Private! Who was that tall guy outside?”  
The soldier understood who he refered to. “What do you care?”  
Ramón shrugged and replied. “I am curious. He wasn't shot”.  
“Shut up already and be quiet about that queer. Anyhow he will be dead in a few days and any information I give will be useless.”  
The soldier spat and with an annoyed look kept walking. Ramón leant on Grantaire's arm and watched his face mute. Grantaire certainly was out of humor, and in spite of all his desire to be affectionate and cordial to his charming companion, he could not control his mood. The intoxication of the news that Enjolras was in the headquarters had gradually begun to work upon him.  
He was still staring at the place where the private had been staning, with his hands clutching to the bars. Aggresively he moved away and sat in bed, watching his hands trembling. The other prisioners watched him but left him alone, except Ramón.

“Who's the guy? Do you know him?”  
“Yes... I do.”  
None of them spoke anymore. Ramón knew it would be useless to tell him that everything would get fixed because it'd be a lie. Nobody leaves their cell and is freed; all of them die, even that tall handsome guy. He sat beside Grantaire and tried to comfort him with his presence. Grantaire kept rubbing his temples. His mouth was dry and he felt like drinking wine and drowning in it. He drowned in his sleep instead, dreaming for the first time in weeks.  
Artists those days got their inspiration from dreams. Surrealism it was called. However Grantaire got his inspiration (when he used to paint) from his dreams, realistic dreams. He dreamt of common things he had lived or of made up sceneries in which people he knew appeared. That night in jail he dreamt of Enjolras, sitting by a creek completely naked. It was the summer before and his skin was a little tanned. Grantaire was laying on the creek, so small that the water didn't cover his body. Enjolras asked Grantaire about the situation of laborers in Andalusia yet the latter prefered to talk him of how they didn't even care about their situation because they lived in the most beautiful place in the world.  
“Grantaire...” he sighed.  
“What?”  
“I believe that you can be a great help to your people and to mine.”  
“Don't put your hope in a hopeless man. See? Instead I believe in you, and I won't ever be dissapointed”.  
Enjolras sat inside the water next to him too. “You are so dark... It must be really sunny down there”  
Grantaire nodded. It was bright wherever Enjolras went to too.

March began and the fascist headquearters were hectic. The prisioners heard that the Republicans had changed their government because general Casado carried out a coup against Negrín and Franco decided to harden the penalties against the republicans.  
“This means the number of people to be shot will increase” commented one of the old prisioners in Grantaire's cell named Ángel.  
Soon after the news spread among the republicans the prayers began. Not to God but to the captain, Franco, the door that locked them up... The loud cries came from everywhere but hardly any of them proceeded from young boys; they had embraced their fate earlier than the rest. Grantaire sketched on a small notebook he had found with the pencil he always carried on his pocket. He was drawing a series of figures that represented his friends when a private carrying a folder under his arm stopped in front of the cell and wrote something on a sheet. “At eleven o'clock. Be awake” Enunciated the anonymous soldier, whom Grantaire considered one of the moirai.  
“It's settled, then” whispered Ramón's friend, raising his gaze to the window.

None slept that night and the dawn greeted everyone on their last moments. From Grantaire's cell they could listen hustle and bustle coming from the first group in the morning. It was a long group... and the last one to walk by was Enjolras. The latter didn't see Grantaire, but he gazed at the approaching figure, and slowly he rose to his feet. With a firm stride he walked towards the doord and clutching to it, began shaking it loudly.  
“¡VIVA LA REPÚBLICA! ¡VIVA LA CONSTITUCIÓN DE 1931!⁹” he cried with fury, aggresively hitting the door of the cell.  
The group stopped and the captain faced Grantaire. “What's wrong with you, hijo de mil putas¹⁰? You must be fucking eager to die” he spoke with disdain. Before Grantaire could answer him back, Ramón spat on the captain's face and yelled: “Hang Franco!”  
The captain ordered two privates to open the cell and take Grantaire and Ramón along with the rest. Grantaire didn't want Ramón to die for him, because he was dying for Enjolras. The young man answered with a smile.

Enjolras walked before Grantaire and he had noticed him. He smiled to him.

“Against the wall!” they shouted. They stood facing a wall, a long line of twenty republican prisioners, and behind them, a line of fascist soldiers with guns. Enjolras' beauty, at that moment augmented by his pride, was resplendent. He was struck by a new spiritual beauty in her face. The weight on Grantaire's chest felt light when he turned to Enjolras. In that moment they could have sworn that time had stopped. Enjolras too turned to the other, took his hand and slightly bent to brush his lips against Grantaire's, feeling one of his arms wrapped around the his waist and the other on his hair. Enjolras opened his eyes and before they unlocked their lips, the report sounded and Grantaire fell down first. Enjolras stood on his feet even when he was pierced by seven bullets. He died with the eighth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ¹Vaig a veure com van Courfeyrac i Combeferre. Veus? Practico la teva llengua: I'm going to see how Courfeyrac and Combeferre are going. See? I practise your language.  
> ²Fuet: A Catalan thin, dry cured, sausage of pork meat in a pork gut.  
> ³Aristophanes: the eminent comic playwright.  
> ⁴Eryximachus: a physician.  
> ⁵Pausanias: a legal expert.  
> ⁶Alcibiades: a prominent Athenian statesman, orator and general.  
> ⁷Agathon: tragic poet, host of the banquet, that celebrates the triumph of his first tragedy.  
> ⁸ : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_eCxn-MQBY  
> ⁹¡VIVA LA REPÚBLICA! ¡VIVA LA CONSTITUCIÓN DE 1931!: Long live the Republic, long live the constitution of 1931.  
> ¹⁰ Hijo de mil putas: Son of 1000 bitches. Yes, we are very creative.


End file.
